


Most Nights

by Shortandblonde



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Late Night Conversations, One Shot, Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 19:42:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11516118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shortandblonde/pseuds/Shortandblonde
Summary: Cenra tells Alistair of the time King Maric visited her father.





	Most Nights

**Author's Note:**

> This was written quite a while ago, but I found it while going through some old files and figured it was worth posting. Enjoy.

Nights in camp were always calm and quiet with an underlying uneasiness that they did their best to block out. They had a sort of routine, one that made the nights easier as time went on and the responsibility hanging over their heads became more defined. They'd sit and eat in a sullen silence, or they'd talk aimiably about everything and nothing. Occasionally Leliana would tell stories. Then the atmosphere would lighten, and suddenly the group of them were laughing around the fire as Alistair told of yet another prank and he and other templar trainees had pulled on the Revered Mother. Morrigan would roll her eyes, and Leliana would stifle giggles behind her hand as Oghren cackled openly. Those were the better nights.

The other nights were less enjoyable. Sten would pace the camp with a wary look on his face, shoulders tensed and uneasy. Morrigan would hide away in her tent, and Alistair would stare into the fire while wearing an almost lost expression. Oghren would drink himself into a stupor. That was always when Cenra would find herself waking long after the embers had burned out with a scream caught in her throat and tears running down her cheeks. Only half the time were they dreams of the Blight. All other times they were of her family, of her father and mother where she'd left them to die, of her nephew's blood staining the floor. Duncan would look at her with his stone-hard expression and say that she had a duty now, revenge could come later. It was usually Alistair who'd find her after those nightmares, sobbing into her hands and unable to compose herself. He seemed to understand. She didn't think all his dreams were of the Blight either. 

On this night they took the first guard together, because sometimes they could feel when the dreams of the archdemon would come, and it seemed better to avoid them than to attempt rest where none would come. Cenra sat on one of the bedrolls they'd rolled out, watching the fire shift and cast twisted shadows across the ground. Beside her Alistair hummed something out-of-tune, as if he were trying to keep his mind off of whatever was bothering him. He did that sometimes, she'd noticed, after the longer days when their fight seemed truly impossible to win. Mangy- her dog- laid asleep near the fire. He was probably the only one getting a good rest that night. She found herself almost wishing something would happen, that bandits would attempt to raid the camp or someone looking to make coin with their heads would ambush them. It'd feel good to run her sword through something, to get rid of the tense half-silence that they were sitting in.  
Instead she found herself speaking of something that she'd almost forgotten about. 

"You know, I met King Maric once." 

Alistair turned to look at her, and for once she found she couldn't read his expression. "Did you?"

"Yeah. I was about ten years old. I can't remember why he was there, but he stayed a night at our estate." She looked down at her hands, chuckling softly. "I must've asked him a million stupid questions at dinner that night. I'd grown up on stories of King Maric the Savior, and, well, you can imagine how fascinated I was to meet him."   
"You? Gushing over someone? No, I don't think I can picture that." Alistair smirked at her, and she elbowed him lightly in the ribs. Banter with him always came easy, and for all their insults and blithe remarks, it was a comfort. 

"It was around that time that I was beginning to gain an interest in learning to fight. My father indulged me, of course, but I don't think he thought that I'd really keep it up. I told the king that I wanted to be a great warrior like him one day- that I wanted to be one of Ferelden's greatest heroes. I'd have songs dedicated to me and everything! I must've sounded so foolish. But he just.. smiled. Told me about this woman he'd known that'd been a skilled fighter- that'd fought by his side when he liberated Ferelden. Rowan, his queen." She smiled down at the ground. "I was so inspired after that. I tried twice as hard to learn everything my brother or the guard captain taught me, until my father finally realized that I wouldn't give it up and gave me proper lessons." 

"That sounds more like you. Stubborn as a mabari." She turned to look at Alistair, a retort ready, but he looked almost sad. She was, after all, speaking of the father he'd never met- the very one he was suddenly burdened with replacing. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

"I just wanted to say that Maric.. he was a good man, Alistair. And I think you are too. You're a lot like him."

"Don't say that-"

"-And I think you're going to be fine, when the time comes." 

He looked at her as if he wanted to reply, then he looked away. She gave his shoulder a squeeze and turned back to the fire. They spent the rest of their shift in an easy silence, both lost in their own thoughts about the future. Cenra didn't know where she'd be going, after the Blight. The Grey Wardens of Ferelden needed to be rebuilt, and with Alistair on the throne, it'd leave her alone to gather recruits and bring the order back up from it's knees. She'd been raised to be a leader, to follow in her father's footsteps and one day be at the head of her house or their men. It seemed that was a fate she was destined to no matter what. It was one of those simple, inescapable things.

She glanced again at Alistair and saw the same weight in his eyes, in the way he hunched his shoulders. It was a burden he'd carried since King Cailin died and left no son for the throne, no successor but the half-brother he probably didn't know existed. No matter if they believed in fate or destiny or the Maker's will, it seemed something kept them going in a direction they hadn't entirely chosen. She just hoped that when their futures finally hunted them down, it'd be easy on them. It'd been a hard year, after all. She thought that they at least deserved time to make sense of their fates before it drowned them.

**Author's Note:**

> This hasn't been edited since I found it, so please let me know if you find any errors. Thanks for reading.


End file.
